


A Crushed Rose Still Wins

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Light Angst, M/M, Roses, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 06:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Valentine's Day. Mycroft tries to do something brave, but it doesn't go to plan.





	A Crushed Rose Still Wins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrushedRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrushedRose/gifts).



> This story is for CrushedRose - Happy Birthday! Our lovely mutual friend Daynaan-Black-Dawn commissioned this for you, and I am honoured to have written it. I hope it makes you smile on your special day.

“Bloody Valentines’ Day,” Greg grumbled. “You’d think there was less DV on these days, but no.” He turned to Sally, but she was having none of his whining.

“Be grateful it’s domestic violence and not murder,” she pointed out. “Least we can do is help out when-”

“Don’t jinx it,” Greg warned her. They’d had a quiet month, and with Valentines’ Day bringing out the worst in a whole lot of people, his Super had insisted they go and help take statements. As if his single life wasn’t pathetic enough, Greg thought.

“Detective Inspector?” Greg groaned, wondering who else wanted a piece of him now.

“Mycroft,” he said, recognising the tall man behind him. Now there was someone who could have a piece of him if they wanted. Greg pasted a pleasant smile on his face. “What can I do for you?”

“Enjoying your Valentines’ Day?” Mycroft asked him.

“Much as always,” Greg said. “Not like anyone ever buys me roses anyway, so it’s much the same.”

Mycroft nodded, and for a moment Greg thought he was going to say something else. Instead, he said, “I wanted to ask a professional favour.”

“Of course you did,” Greg replied, grinning. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with your brother, would it?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft conceded.

“Well I’ve already spoken to John, and a bunch of cold cases are on their way to Baker Street to keep him out of secure Government facilities. For a while, at least.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, obviously surprised. “That’s very considerate.”

“Well, it keeps me from owing you a favour, so maybe I shouldn’t have told you that bit,” Greg replied. “Look, sorry to rush you off but there are about a dozen people I need to interview, so if there’s nothing else?”

“No,” Mycroft said, in a tone that said, ‘yes’. “Thank you for your time, Detective Inspector.”

Greg wondered if there actually was something else, but only for a second before he was being summoned to take another statement.

Romance my arse, he thought to himself.

+++

It was late, but Mycroft knew Gregory was often up late, especially after a shift that ran into overtime. His lights were on; that was surely a good sign.

With a deep breath – he rarely displayed signs of nervousness, but this was a wild departure from the norm anyway, so he allowed himself the indulgence – Mycroft stepped out of the car. He was careful not to knock the roses; they were perfect, a dozen shimmering glories ready to be presented along with his heart.

Stepping to the door, Mycroft hesitated as a movement inside caught his eye. It was Gregory, standing in his living room. He looked exhausted, Mycroft thought. His heart sped up at the thought that this was happening, that the screwing of his courage to the sticking plate was coming to a head right now.

Two centimetres from the doorbell, Mycroft’s finger stalled. His eyes, still pinned on the living room, watched as a woman stepped into view. She was speaking to Gregory, and through the gauzy curtains, Mycroft saw a smile. He couldn’t see the detail of Gregory’s expression, but when she reached up to kiss him – not a passionate embrace, but certainly more than a passing companion or family member – his heart contracted.

Turning blindly, Mycroft knocked the box of flowers to the ground. Not wanting to stop he abandoned them, stumbling to his car and instructing his driver.

“Just drive, dammit!”

Privacy screen up, and he was free to drop his head back, eyes closed but not holding back the hot tears. Of course Gregory wouldn’t be interested. Even if Mycroft had noted the lingering gazes, the clear interest in men – in Mycroft, if his radar wasn’t completely out – there was nothing saying he couldn’t be dating someone too.

The crude phrase summed up his evening perfectly.

Romance my arse, he thought to himself.

+++

“Well, I’ll see you later,” Vanessa said, in that tone that really meant, ‘Goodbye.’

“Yeah,” Greg replied.

She’d dropped over without even calling, insisting on flashing her huge new engagement ring around like Greg would be impressed or jealous or something. He honestly didn’t care what she did any more, and when she’d kissed him, he’d simply stood and taken it until she realised he wasn’t reciprocating.

As she walked down the porch stairs, Greg saw her stumble.

“What the hell?” he muttered. She kept walking, barely even giving the obstacle a second glance.

Greg turned on the porch light, picking up the first thing he saw. It was a rose, red from what he could see, and crushed by Vanessa’s impatient flight. The scent was still strong, rich and deep, and he breathed in without thinking, enjoying the long forgotten sense.

Looking down there was a box, one of the expensive ones that you might have roses delivered in. It had been dropped, he thought, rather than delivered; the lid was askew, and there was a card nestled in amongst the remaining flowers. Greg picked it up and took it inside, elbowing the door shut. The box really was enormous, and as he slid the lid off, he gasped.

They were damaged, but Greg could see that they had been perfect, eleven glorious red roses in full bloom, their perfume filling his dining nook. He placed the crushed petals beside their fellow roses. The stems were tied with a silver ribbon, and the card was the same colour; the kind of fancy paper you might put a wedding invitation in, he thought.

Or a Valentine.

Greg’s name was penned on the front, fancy lettering for his fancy name, the ‘y’ of ‘Gregory’ looping around with an elegance his scrawl would never reach. His heart started pounding and he made himself stop and think before opening the card.

He didn’t know many people who would have such money to spend on flowers. Certainly not for him; with that criterion, the list became pathetically small. Non-existent, in fact. Greg frowned. The only person he knew personally with that kind of money was…but no, that was ridiculous.

Mycroft was gorgeous, of course, carrying himself with the kind of poise only managed by those completely unaware of their own attractiveness. Greg had pressed down that particular rush of desire as often as he’d needed to, and over time it had settled, low in his belly, changing from lust into something more akin to adoration. Knowing Mycroft a little more had not dampened his desire, but Greg was nothing if not realistic, and he knew he had nothing to offer the man.

Although apparently, that was moot, Greg thought, skimming past the text to the signature below.

Mycroft Holmes.

Disbelievingly, Greg made himself read, slowly, from the beginning. There were few words, but their meaning was clear, and he imagined a short speech had been prepared to go along with them.

Heart thumping and ignoring every instinct to the contrary, he called Mycroft.

“Good evening,” Mycroft answered, his voice wary even for him.

“Mycroft,” Greg said, abandoning all attempts at social niceties, “you left something on my doorstep.”

A long beat, and Greg wasn’t sure he could hear Mycroft breathing.

“Mycroft,” he tried again, twisting his wrist to read his watch, “if you get here in the next twenty three minutes, it will still be Valentine’s Day.”

“And I would be…welcome?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” Greg said as emphatically as possible. “You would.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. “I will be with you directly.”

It was twenty one minutes later that Greg answered the door. Mycroft stood, looking nervous, his fidgeting fingers stilling as he met Greg’s eyes.

“Two minutes to midnight,” Greg said. When Mycroft didn’t speak, Greg stepped closer. “You remembered about the roses.”

“I did,” Mycroft said.

“They’re beautiful,” Greg prompted.

Mycroft swallowed, and his words were hardly audible. “So are you.”

Greg felt his eyebrows rise at the compliment. “Thank you.”

The silence stretched on, until Mycroft blurted, “When I arrived you had…company.”

“Oh,” Greg said. “That would be Vanessa. Ex-wife. Pushy, getting married, wanted me to know and beg to have her back.”

“And you’re…not interested?” Mycroft asked carefully.

“I am not,” Greg said. He glanced at his watch. “It’s still Valentine’s Day for thirty seconds.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg couldn’t help a mental countdown. He wondered if Mycroft’s courage would fail him.

_Eleven…ten…nine…_

“I had a speech planned,” Mycroft blurted, “but…”

He hesitated, and as Greg’s countdown ran out, Mycroft stepped forward, cupping his face. Grey eyes searched his for a moment, and Greg closed his eyes as Mycroft’s mouth met his, the breath exhaling across his cheek shaking with nerves. It was gentle and chaste, and as they eased away again, Greg found himself grinning.

“Did you want to come in?” he asked. “Probably not great form to be standing on my porch snogging.”

“One kiss is hardly ‘snogging’,” Mycroft protested, his face flushed.

“Not yet it’s not,” Greg told him, smiling as the pink deepened to red. As he pulled Mycroft inside, the single crushed rose fell to the floor. Greg didn’t notice it was gone, but when Mycroft presented it to him on their anniversary, dried and pressed, Greg recognised it immediately.


End file.
